


!

by rageprufrock



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-13
Updated: 2011-09-13
Packaged: 2017-10-23 17:24:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,867
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/252875
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rageprufrock/pseuds/rageprufrock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In mathematics, the factorial of a non-negative integer n is the product of all positive integers less than or equal to n. This is written as n! and pronounced "n factorial", or colloquially "n shriek", "n bang" or "n crit". (Wikipedia)</p>
            </blockquote>





	!

The Wraith enzyme is like a spiderwebbing itch under Rodney skin, rolling and hot and bothersome, it makes him run hot and cold and sweat and shiver and he touches Sheppard far, far too much. It's as much torturing himself as it must be fucking with Sheppard's head, because every time Rodney brushes his hand over John's shoulder, touches his arm, accidentally slides his hand over John's hip, Rodney feels flesh hot and hard beneath his hand like there's no cloth between them at all and it's driving him up the fucking wall.

And late at night he hears Ronon and Teyla fucking like dogs next door, all growls and bared teeth, a peal of Teyla's silver-dollar laugh and Ronon's grumbling chuckle underneath it and Rodney's so fucking jealous he could bust in next door and kill them with his bare hands if he wasn't so busy jerking off, fisting his cock with two fingers in his ass, stretching himself out, awkward and dry and not great but--God, still so good.

He imagines it's John, holding him down with big, rough hands, calloused in all the right places. He imagines John's pushing him down in the rumpled pile of bedding, palm hot on the back of Rodney's neck, the other on Rodney's hip and Jesus Christ, John's spine, in a supernatural arch, curved over Rodney--John's hipbones sharp and bruising as he shoves in, shoves up, shoves Rodney face-down into the blanket and biting at Rodney's shoulder. He imagines John hot and huge between his legs and the stretch of it, all biting, static ache and the throbbing pleasure that shatters over him and Rodney comes so hard he nearly blacks out every single time.

Of course, John's so busy being worried out of his mind for Ford and negotiating to lower Rodney's enzyme dose and keep everything calm he doesn't do the charitable thing and take advantage of the situation--just continues to be painfully competent in a way that is unbearably sexy and the days drag into weeks and one day, the Wraithdart floats.

And in the middle of all of this, even as he's being pushed back into Ford's headquarters, he thinks he's so fucking sick of seeing John fly away from him.

 ****

 *****

But then three hours passes and suddenly it's four and the sky is dark and wet like loamy earth on the Atlantean mainland and the buzz Rodney's been riding starts spiraling out of his skin. He forgets that when he opens his mouth and rockets off with people other than John, what's waiting for him at the end a very long single-sided rant isn't a smirk--it's two of Ford's guys, looking equal parts annoyed and predatory and it makes something in Rodney go all calm and still.

"They did this show already," Rodney snaps when he finds his voice again. "It wasn't popular."

One of the men raises his eyebrow at Rodney and the other one laughs, tips Rodney's jaw upward with one rough hand and oh God, Rodney can feel the calluses on his fingers and they feel good against his skin, he wonders what they'd feel like on his throat, on his--back.

"You're pretty soft and white for a man," the one on the left says, brown-eyed and ordinary, with a dusting of whiskers on his ruddy face, and he licks his mouth and Rodney nearly groans, because he wants--

The hand on his chin slides round to the side of Rodney's neck and the man with brown eyes is digging his fingers into Rodney's throat--and Rodney wonders if there's going to be a set of bruises there tomorrow, if there will be evidence and he thinks there won't, that the enzyme will bleach this out of his skin and out of his head and out of his body and the deliciousness of no consequences whispering in his head makes something roll up his spine and his mouth curves upward, like a sickle moon.

Brown eyes smiles back, and Rodney feels another hand now, thumb stroking over his ribs, through the material of his shirt, and God, he's so touch-starved, he's leaning into it and it makes someone in the room laugh a little, murmur something under his breath Rodney's probably heard in really debasing porn before.

"Soft," the other man says, and when Rodney looks over, feeling the blood rise to his cheeks, he says, gray eyes crinkling around the edges, thin lips quirking, "Like a woman."

It sounds like a dare and Rodney must be spending too much time with Sheppard because he growls around the challenge and grabs the man by the front of his shirt, jerking him in and kissing him, lips bruising and rough, biting at his mouth. It's all teeth and tongue and sloppy, no finesse and a rush of sensation, the taste of the dizzy-sweet fruit that grows in the trees here lining the edges of Rodney's awareness.

And when Rodney breaks away, he's grinning manically and he can hear laughter in the background, somebody saying, "Not so much like a woman," and then he's being grabbed again, turned by thick palms and bony fingers until he's shoved up between the two men, until he can feel a hardening cock through his pants, grinding against the inner curve of Rodney's thigh and another hot and suggestive, rubbing against his hipbone and oh fuck--

Rodney can't breathe because he's got another tongue shoved down his throat, hands cupping his face, and his chin feels slippery from saliva and his mouth aches already--in all the best ways. And he feels a burn of stubble against the back of his neck and holy fuck somebody sinks their teeth into the crane-arch of his spine, bites along his shoulder, tugs his shirt away from his skin, sucks kisses long all the curve of flesh around bone.

Rodney likes that, so he reaches back, pulls whoever's behind him closer, and he pulls his mouth away from the bruising kiss, eyes wide and glazed, looks upward, at the thatched roof overheat, the slivers of blue sky and he thinks about Sheppard and it makes his cock jump, because when Rodney thinks of John he thinks of flying, of jumper sliding smooth and silent through space, of John's smile and John's mouth, his pretty face.

He's being crushed between them, feeling the claustrophobic rub of two cocks against him, grinding into his skin through his clothes and Rodney feels like a fucking porn star and it makes a laugh bubble through him--one that gets swallowed up when the man behind him turns Rodney's head, covers his mouth again, hand sliding around Rodney's ribs, over his stomach, fumbles with the front of Rodney's pants.

Rodney's locked in between two sets of tangled legs and strong bodies and he couldn't fight it even if he wanted to and that's before a large hand curls around his dick, jerks it once, twice, hard and Rodney feels his knees give out, feels himself tumble forward, suddenly sucking oxygen through an opened and unoccupied mouth as he's braced between them. And the hand squeezes around the base of Rodney's cock like a warning.

"Hey, we should--" Rodney starts, but apparently, talking is not part of the game here, and okay, he'll get over that because he's being maneuvered, so that the man behind him moves away, and Rodney's ass is shoved against the table, insistently until he gets a fucking clue and helps himself up, feels his shoulders pressed to the uneven wood and hands jerking at his pants, thumbs rubbing his nipples through his shirt.

"Where's the--" Rodney hears somebody say, and there's a crow of triumph. He looks blearily up, panting for breath, and sees the brown-eyed man jerking a vial of oil out of Rodney's pocket. He's been keeping that in there for the Wraithdart's surprisingly inorganic engineering, all rusty and creaking and Jesus Christ his whole body seizes up because he just can't wait--this is going to be so good--

There're chairs being shoved out of the way and way too much motion that is not centered on getting Rodney good and fucked and he's about to start registering his very vocal complaints when he feels somebody's mouth close over the head of his dick and he goes all nonverbal again. He tangles his hands in somebody's hair, digs his nails into his scalp, and it's not nice and it's not thoughtful but it's so fucking hot Rodney feels his back arching off of the table when he comes in three dizzying, hot jerks--and when he comes back down, Rodney's all shaken out from his orgasm, loose-limbed and trembling. Wrung-out.

And then Rodney feels an oil-slicked finger pushing into him, another, and one more, until the pinpricking aftershocks shoot straight upward until they edge pain, so that ever uneven brush against his prostate is making him lightheaded, making him buzz, oversaturated, body too heavy with sensation to move or do much more than make a wet, desperate sound come out of the back of his throat.

But then the fingers start drawing in and out, little jerky, tight thrusts and Rodney starts babbling, hands reaching blindly outward until he grabs onto a pair of biceps in front of him, until a hand falls to the middle of his chest, until the fingers disappear and something larger and blunt presses against him. All Rodney can do is push himself toward it, beg for it without words, because God, that tingle, that itch under his skin, it was just screaming for this, and Rodney wants it so much, needs it, aches for it.

And oh fuck, when Rodney feels the cock push into him, it's all taking and no asking and Rodney's always bitched about being used on Atlantis but fuck all of that it feels fucking amazing, because he feels split open, sweet and damp and slick like a peach cleaved into two. He feels like the skin stretched over a drum, beaten to a buzzing, boiling rhythm and like the syrupy golden drip of molasses and then there's a groan Rodney's world blitzes out.

Then all Rodney does is moan through it, beg for it, push his hips out to meet the trusts and reach down to jerk at his dick, and his mouth is opened and in between the nonsensical noises he's saying things like, "Yes," and "Oh God," and "Fuck--yes, just like that, yeah, more, fuck," over and over again, chanting it even as he feels himself being pushed up, shoved over, the steady wet slap of skin on skin in the background grounding him.

"God, oh fuck, you're so hot," Somebody pants at Rodney, and he doesn't have time in between trying not to come his brains out and being pushed into--oh God--tumbling into somebody's lap, cock sinking deeper into him, and somehow the stretch is even sweeter this way. So Rodney just moans into it lays out flat against somebody's chest, scratchy with hair and he thinks this might be what sitting on John's dick might feel like--only better, he thinks distantly, because it's John, it would be better, though he can't imagine how right now.

And that's when gravity shifts and Rodney feels himself tip forward, and he puts out his hands to feel the rough edges, the thick sides of one of the benches, pushes himself up until he's hovering over--it's the man with brown eyes, lashes thin and scraggly around his feverish eyes. Rodney can feel his hands on Rodney's hips, as he pushes them together, opposite poles.

It's all so completely wrong and so obscenely hot that Rodney doesn't even think that there's anything wrong when another hand falls between his shoulder blades, shoves him down onto brown-eyes' chest and trails down the line of Rodney's spine, along the bumps and leaves an oil-stick trail, until Rodney feels fingers pressing in along with the cock pushing into him--fingers slipping inside.

Rodney's totally going to protest, because, Jesus Christ, he's seen the porn and he's nowhere near tan and twinky enough for this sort of shit but then he realizes that someone else has walked into the room. So Rodney's too busy lifting his head up, pushing himself up on shaking arms, and by the time he registers not one, but two spectators, the head of a second cock, slick and hot against his ass is--oh fucking God--pushing into him.

And oh God, it hurts but he likes it. No, correction--because he feels hot breath on his neck and the masculine groans and his body opening like morning or the earth, all shattered apart by moving tectonic plates, feels someone's smooth chest hot on his back, thighs holding him in place, hands still on his hips, an overdose of sensation--he loves it and oh God, is Rodney's last cogent thought before the slow slide becomes a push and Rodney yells.

Sometime after Rodney feeling the man on top of him huff, shake, and then pull away, and Rodney sucking greedily at a cock that pushes between his lips, the tensile strength of him finally snaps and he feels his whole body shake as his vision goes blurry to black and the last thing he thinks he remembers is the sound of something shrieking through the sky overhead.

 ****

 *****

By the time Rodney's cleaned up and properly aghast at the terrible carnal sins he's just committed, he hears somebody shout, "What the fuck?" from the doorway and it's all downhill from there.

By the time he manages to explain to Sheppard that he wasn't gang-raped by Ford's crew a significant percentage of the compound has already been burned to the ground from the spectacular crash landing of a medium-sized Wraith flyer so it wasn't like Sheppard didn't do his heroic rescue--even if all of Rodney's aches left him buzzing in all the right places.

Back on Atlantis, with Ford in the brig and Beckett being extraordinarily delicate with him and Ronon and Teyla still fucking like rabbits it takes John a whole week before he can look Rodney in the eye again. Then there're some feeble attempts to talk about their feelings, but the reason men don't generally do that is because they're terrible at it and Rodney leaves the awkward, stilted conversation wanting to set something on fire and punch John in the mouth and maybe a little bit like crying all at the same time. If this is what the class slut back in high school felt, Rodney would totally share his cigarettes with her now that he knows.

 ****

 *****

It's two weeks after that when John walks into Rodney's room at half past two at night and says:

"Look, I know I've been acting like a di--jerk. But it's really a lot of information to incorporate when you find out that someone you work really closely with firstly, enjoys cock, and secondly, just enjoyed four of them."

Rodney makes a bleary noise into his pillow and flaps his hand uselessly in John's direction.

"You can gaybash me in the morning just as well, can't you," Rodney pleads, when John doesn't leave, but the look on Sheppard's face isn't irritation or disgust or even amusement. Rodney sees pleading worry and maybe even more than that a look akin to fury that makes him tingle again--even though all of the enzyme is out of his system.

"I didn't know," John says. He motions to the door. "I'll just--"

"Wait a minute," Rodney interrupts him, eyes going round, "Why does it matter that you didn't know?" John looks away and it makes Rodney suddenly angry. "Why--just--God, don't do that will you just--"

So when John kisses him, it feels nothing like the tidal wave of sensation from before, nothing like being pushed to his limit and pressed to the edge. It feels a lot like the ocean, unimaginably huge and it dwarfs whatever Rodney was going to say and the waves eat away his protests or his worries until all he is is glimmer on the sea, and when he pulls away to catch his breath it's to see Sheppard's eyes, supernaturally green.

"Oh," Rodney says stupidly.

John frowns. "Yeah, oh."

Rodney flushes. "I see why you may have been a little upset now," he says meekly.

"That's one way to put it," John says sarcastically, but he's leaning over Rodney, his knees on the edge of Rodney's bed and hey--Rodney knows where this is going, and it puts a stupid, smug smile on his face when John kisses him again, fast and flirtacious and a little chiding. "So for future reference: no more high-as-a-kite orgies."

"I'll see what I can do about that," Rodney promises.

And when he pulls John on top of him, all warm and welcoming and familiar weight, the electricity runs a current beneath his skin and causes a spiderwebbing itch, rolling and hot and bothersome, it makes him run hot and cold and sweat and shiver. It drives him up the fucking wall and Rodney  _loves it_.


End file.
